


If Dreams There Be

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22130536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: It's an occupational hazard.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	If Dreams There Be

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the DiscoveredinaLJ "Discovered in the Yuletide Spirit" challenge.
> 
> Thanks to Elizabeth O'Shea and Dorinda for the beta and encouragement!

Bodie fell asleep and dreamed of gunfire and flames. The obbo had gone pear shaped, Cowley had ordered them in, backup was on its way. The explosion—probably intentional; possibly not—had set fire to the front side of the building. Doyle headed left down the alley while Bodie ran to the right, gun in hand. The side door would be the most likely escape route. If they knew they were observed, they’d be prepared; dive and roll at the corner— Bodie heard gunfire as he rolled and came up firing his own gun. One man went down; he saw no others. Bodie eased to his feet and walked towards the side door where a single dim light shone. There had been at least two men in the building—

He heard gunfire behind the building, then nothing except the sound of approaching sirens. Fire brigade? CI5? Where the hell was Doyle? And then he relaxed as he saw Doyle jogging round the corner of the building. At the same time, he saw a shadow move to Doyle’s left—behind him—a man raising his arm—

“Doy—” Bodie tried to shout the name but it came out as a sort of soft, hoarse croak. The cold that had left him coughing on and off for a week, took his voice— Bodie shot at the shadowed man even as he heard gunfire and saw a flash from the man’s gun. _No! Fuck_ — He ran forward, fired again at the sprawled form, realised only as he reached him that the man was dead. Nazari, the leader of the cell. Bodie spun round, looked for Doyle.

He was down, a still form on the pavement. Bodie ran to him, found his eyes were open in the light. Unmoving. _No_. He dropped to his knees, reached for Doyle to move him into the recovery position, check his airways, check— He knew it was useless; he did it anyway. No, no, no. He didn’t want to stop because if he stopped—when—he’d have nothing standing between him and the avalanche of emotions that clogged his throat and pressed against his heart. _No, no, no_.

_Beep. Beep. Beep_. The sound finally registered; he realised he’d been hearing it for some time. A steady, rhythmic sound, like a countdown, like a bomb’s timer—

Christ! He looked round, saw a bag—another bomb, left by Nazari? It had been in Doyle’s path, he’d tripped—

Tripped.

_Tripped!_

_Beep. Beep. Beep_.

Not a timer, not dank pavement beneath him, not a gunshot wound— He was in hospital; he’d fallen asleep beside Doyle, and the machine that was monitoring him. Doyle had tripped on the pavement—no bloody bag—and the bullet had missed him. Such a small, amazing stroke of luck. But Doyle had gone down hard. He had a concussion, head trauma—

_He's taken a downward turn. The surgeon doesn’t think he’s trying_.

_No, no, no_.

He tightened his hands on the bedding; all the emotion sleep had shunted away returned, heightened by the horror of the dream images. Bodie fought against the despair but it was as if he was holding back a river with his hands. _He’ll make it, he’ll make it, he has to make it—dammit, Doyle. Don’t die. Don’t— Fight you stupid, bloody—_ He loved Doyle. He’d been too afraid. He hadn’t even tried. He wouldn’t survive this—

He opened his eyes to pitch darkness. He blinked, disoriented. His hands grasped bedding but he wasn’t in hospital. He was on a bed—alone. Doyle had…died—Doyle hadn’t died. Which was the truth and which was the dream? His heart thudded as he tried to remember. Doyle hadn’t died. He’d tripped but got up. No head trauma, no surg— Wishful thinking, the dread in his stomach told him. He remembered too well….

“Are you awake?”

He leapt from the bed, collided with someone— _Ray?_ —and they both fell to the floor. 

“Fuck it, Bodie!”

That was definitely Ray. Bodie reached out, found a bony knee and held on. He breathed.

_Beep_.

“Ray, what in bloody hell is that fucking noise?”

“Smoke detector. We didn’t change the battery. I was trying to find one, but then you were thrashing about and I—” Doyle broke off, and then a hand found Bodie’s arm, grasped it tightly. “Hey.”

“Just a bloody dream.”

“Ah. Heart surgery?”

Bodie let out a laugh that was more of a gasp. His heart was finally settling down. “No. Or at least, that got mixed up in it a bit, but this was further back. Remember Nazari?”

“Naz—? Oh, when you didn’t warn me—”

“I _tried_ —”

“I know mate, I know.” Doyle’s voice was gentle, and he rubbed Bodie’s arm. “I tripped, right? And you know that was because I heard this great, gasping moan from you and it startled me. Rather similar to the sound you make when I—”

“Shut up, Doyle.”

_Beep._

“Come on, get up. We still have to deal with that bloody thing. Oh, God, I’m getting too old for playing on the floor." 

They hauled each other up, and Bodie wasn’t at all certain who was helping whom. It didn’t matter. He felt Doyle’s hand caressing his back. 

“That was, strewth, over thirty years ago,” Doyle said. 

They’d laughed the near disaster off the same way they’d laughed off bombs defused at the last second or desperate firefights survived. Until the laughter had given way to thanks, and then to a brittle silence, and then to a different kind of desperate tumble in the dark. Until, finally, they’d stood in streaming sunlight in Doyle’s flat, his laundry just collected after another—the worst—hospital stay, and they had spoken the truth out loud to each other. 

“Forty years now. New decade, remember?” 

“Don’t start that again. The way you talk, we should be in wheelchairs—” 

Bodie turned and kissed Doyle, finding him in the dark as easily as he’d find himself. More easily. “Forty years,” he said firmly, when the kiss ended. It had been the start of their new life, even if they hadn’t realised it. “And the batteries are in the kitchen.” 

“Forget the kitchen.” Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie, pulled him close. “Let’s celebrate, eh? All night long, like we used to do.” 

“Optimist.” 

“Nah, just happy.” Doyle nuzzled Bodie’s neck. “Grateful. Horny.” 

Bodie smiled. “We always have been in syn—” 

_Beep_. 

Bodie towed him into the kitchen. They’d celebrate later, in the luxury of time. 

The End  
January 2020 


End file.
